


I get a good feeling

by prettybrilliantfunny



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M, Romance, SHIELD, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint and Natasha are still very much SHIELD agents on loan to The Avengers, and Tony forces Clint to make a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I get a good feeling

When the agents on sentry ushered him into Fury’s office, he found Coulson already there – standing rigidly in front of the large desk though there were empty chairs on either side of him.  Clint paused a moment – the doors sliding shut behind him – before Fury gave a rough gesture to beckon him in.

 

“—did not go as the President would have liked,” Coulson was saying; he took no notice of Clint’s arrival, but continued with his report.

 

Fury’s face was hard, lips thinning out at the mention of the President.  “Your professional opinion, agent?”

 

Coulson answered almost immediately, his hesitation only discernible in the twitch of his clasped hands and the shallow breath he took before speaking.  “As expected, Colonel, Stark is proving to be a liability – both to SHIELD and to the initiative.”

 

“I don’t know, sir.  I’m kinda starting to like the guy.”

 

Now Coulson did acknowledge him, his distaste at the other agent speaking out of turn plain to see.  Fury, however, accepted the interruption with his usual long-suffering indulgence and said, “Ms. Potts assures me the feeling is temporary.  It’s like Stockholm Syndrome.”

 

Clint frowned. “If this is about Robbins—“

 

“Parker Robbins a.k.a. ‘The Hood’,” Fury cut in.  “Leader of a major New York crime syndicate – an organization we have been trying to root out for  _months_  and were on the verge of doing so when the  _Avengers_  went off mission.”

 

“Civilians were in danger,” Clint reminded him.  “Captain America diverted the plan in order to protect them.”

 

“SHIELD agents were en route.  They were never in any real peril.”

 

“Cap believed otherwise.”

 

“Believed?” Fury repeated; Clint didn’t like the sudden change in his tone. “Or was  _told_  otherwise?  It would not be the first time Stark incited such defiance.”

 

Clint swallowed hard.  It  _had_  been Iron Man who’d picked up the life signs, but—“Sir, I don’t think anyone can make Captain America do anything he doesn’t want to.”

 

He watched Fury’s jaw clench – his dark eye fixed on Clint’s face.  Fury knew it was the truth – selfless and patriotic to a fault, Steve Rogers had been engineered into the perfect super-soldier, but he’d been born a leader.  Nothing could dissuade him once his mind was set.

 

“A team of civilians.” Fury scoffed. He turned to Coulson.  “And you thought this would be a good idea?”

 

Clint barely kept his surprise in check.  Coulson responsible for the Avengers? That was certainly a shock.  He stared at the other agent – calm and unflappable as ever.  “From a logical standpoint—“

 

“Aw hell, I don’t give a damn,” snapped Fury.  “They are a  _SHIELD initiative,_ and they’ll follow orders or be disbanded.”

 

He jabbed a finger in Clint’s direction.  “There’s a bigger situation at hand than a bunch of costumed do-gooders taking potshots at the bad guys – do you understand me, soldier?”

 

“Yes, but—“

 

“We’re not paying you to like them.  We’re paying you to  _keep them in line_.”  
  
“With all due respect, sir--” He ground out.  
  
“ _Agent Barton._  You were brought into the initiative on Agent Romanov’s discretion.  Was there an error in her judgment?”

 

_Do we need to remove you_  was what he meant.  Clint tried to remember what his life had been before the Avengers, and the fact that the memories were already slipping through his fingers made something low in his gut clench.  Toe the line and remain an Avenger – remain a  _hero_  – or go back to being a grunt, another faceless agent in the big, military machine.  
  
He met Fury’s hard stare and forced himself to come to attention.  “No, sir,” he answered rigidly.  Apparently satisfied, Fury nodded once.  
  
“Good. You’re dismissed.”

 

~

 

But all that was easier said than done.

 

After the incident with the Hood, there was a group of idiots calling themselves “The Wrecking Crew”, and then there was a reappearance from Loki (who was less out to cause havoc this time as he was just general mischief, that resulted in half the team switching genders for two days) – and through it all, Clint and Tony actually started getting on.

 

It was hard not to get amped up about your job, when you spent almost the whole of every day with Tony fucking Stark, who thought being a superhero was ridiculously fantastic.  It was a sense of duty for Steve, and for Bruce it was literally do this or go to jail (Who could blame him? Clint would pick just about anything over internment on The Raft), but Tony?

 

To him the world was one giant cosmic joke, and his role as Iron Man was simply the result of a set of particularly hilarious coincidences and statistical randomness.  If the universe was stupid enough to make him a superhero, damned if he wasn’t gonna enjoy the hell out of it.

 

And Clint, who’d never placed much stock in the world to begin with, couldn’t help but get dragged along with him.

 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to  _tag_  the badguys,” Hawkeye commented. 

 

But he leaned against the brick wall, and did nothing to stop him, watching Iron Man spray-paint a giant Avenger’s A across the chest of yet another henchman, finishing with a dramatic flourish. (Hawkeye was absolutely  _not_  smiling).

 

“What do you think?” Iron Man asked, suit whirring as his glove rearranged itself back around the repulsor.

 

“A little obvious, don’t you think?”

 

“We fight crime, Hawkeye,” Iron Man retorted.  “We’re  _rockstars_.”

 

Now Hawkeye did laugh.  “You think?”

 

He could see the rest of the team just in the distance, rounding up the last of the bad guys and knew they were getting on fine without them.  He tweaked idly with the string of his bow while Tony removed the Iron Man helmet and raked the sweaty hair back from his forehead.  
  
Tony grinned.  “The few, the heroic, the extremely attractive.”

 

Hawkeye rolled his eyes, pushing off the wall.  “Yeah, yeah.  Let’s go, Jagger…”

 

The jab rolled right off Tony, who good-naturedly fell into step beside Hawkeye, dragging their chained and unconscious henchman behind him, helmet tucked under one arm.  Hawkeye slung his bow over his shoulder, settling the string properly over his chest, as they picked their steps over the rubble.  Tony started whistling, like he was heading for coffee rather than a military debriefing, and Clint thought they might both be a little crazy.

 

“Why does the suit even  _have_  spray paint?”

 

~

 

As with most things in his life, it all had to go to hell eventually.

 

And two months later, it did.

 

~

 

_< STAND DOWN CAPTAIN. I REPEAT, STAND DOWN.>_

 

“Negative, Command, negative.  The situation has changed; SHIELD operatives are not equipped to—“

 

_< PULL OUT, AVENGERS. THAT’S AN ORDER>_

 

Captain America looked to Iron Man, frustrated and clearly at odds with his gut and the military chain of command.  The golden faceplate was as impassive as ever – so easy to forget that there was a man beneath the suit, that Iron Man and Tony Stark weren’t completely different men – but even as Hawkeye shot another concussive arrow over the barricade to cover them, he kept one eye on the Captain.  He never could understand it – how Cap could read Tony through all that metal and tech – but he must have seen something Hawkeye couldn’t, because his furrowed brow smoothed out and his mouth took on a line of grim determination.

 

“Right,” he said, then switched off his comms with SHIELD.

 

Iron Man gave a curt nod.  “You’re the boss, Cap.  What’s the plan?”

 

Captain America glanced over the barricade, where Thor was currently battling half a dozen HYDRA thugs – keeping them from getting to the other Avengers before they could suss out a new plan.  The Norseman was holding his own for now, but even gods could tire.

 

“We can’t let them detonate.”

 

“Will they do that?” Bruce’s voice cut through their private communicators, not even the slightest buzz to hint that he was fifteen floors up from them, picking through the ransacked remnants of a hotel suite.  “Will they detonate with us still inside?”

 

Cap glanced at Hawkeye – the question obvious – but he never got the chance to speak; his hesitation was answer enough.

 

“Iron Man—“

 

“JARVIS can scramble the remote relay, but that won’t stop them for long – some agent with half an ounce of IT will figure out how to block it.” Iron Man shot a repulsor blast over the wall and flattened a HYDRA soldier who’d been going for Thor’s back.  “Now if someone were to, say,  _step_  on the transmitter…”

 

Cap caught on immediately.  “Bruce,” he comm’d.  “Time to get angry.”

 

_< AGENT BARTON. KEEP TO THE MISSION>_

 

Bruce’s reply was drowned out by Fury’s sudden shouting; Hawkeye’s encrypted channel to SHIELD HQ switching on with a horrible screech of feedback and sound.  He physically reeled from the unexpected sound, only just stopping himself from putting a hand to his head – neither of his teammates seemed to notice.

 

“—no real powers to put her at a disadvantage.” Iron Man was saying.  “How do you propose we draw her off?”

 

Cap smiled.  “Well. She’s not too fond of me.”

 

Iron Man’s suit began to whir, the cyan glow of the arc reactor in his chest growing brighter and brighter.  “I think you’ll be the prettiest bait we’ve ever used,” he quipped.

 

_< BARTON. EVACUATE YOUR TEAM!>_

 

“That makes me the switch.” Clint slung his bow over his shoulder and pulled his gloves tight, ignoring the sweat dripping down his neck and into his armour.

 

“You?”

 

“Thor’s getting run down and you’ve got more firepower.  It’s a hotel lobby – I can maneuver better than you and your suit.”

 

“He’s right,” Cap agreed.  “Do it.”

 

“MY FRIENDS! THE SERPENT MAID IS ATTEMPTING TO FLEE.”

 

“Shit.” Iron Man’s boosters shattered divots into the tile floor as he took flight, shooting up and over their makeshift barricade, blasting as he went.  “Get to her, Hawkeye.”

 

Clint was over the wall only seconds after him, Captain America hot on his heels.  “I’ll get her,” he shouted back.  “Don’t let me get shot, now”

 

He dodged a gun blast and shouldered the gunman aside, hearing the heavy  **thunk!**  of Cap’s shield ricochet into the man as Hawkeye kept running.  He saw a massive streak of green appear out of the corner of his eye, heard the smash of cement as a couple tons of rage monster landed in the street.  (Hulk had apparently decided jumping was faster than the stairs).

 

Concrete dust was heavy in the air, thick clouds of it funneling up with every gunshot and repulsor blast that missed its mark, and Hawkeye didn’t know how Thor could have seen anything through the wreckage of what had once been the Hilton lobby.  But then the dust cleared – just a little, just enough – and Hawkeye could see her.  Not Viper – the one SHIELD had dispatched them to bring in; a routine trap and snare – no. 

 

Black Widow -  _Natasha_  – unconscious and flung over Madame Hydra’s shoulder, her red curls ashen with debris and gauntlets sparking futilely, crushed beyond repair.  His sweat ran cold down his back. What Viper had planned for the other agent, Hawkeye couldn’t begin to imagine, but there was no way in hell he’d let her take Widow.

 

Viper was nearly to the stairwell door – whether she meant to go up or down he didn’t know, but either direction meant escape.  He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate – he slipped beneath two henchmen, vaulted onto the front desk---and  _jumped_. 

 

He tackled Viper from the air, bringing the three of them down in a heap of limbs and muffled shouts.  Viper lost her grip on Black Widow and the unconscious Avenger tumbled down the lobby steps away from them.

 

Viper screamed in anger, her dark eyes flashing as they tussled at the head of the stairs.   She started to reach into her cloak, but Hawkeye knew all her tricks and threw up his elbow, cracking the underside of her jaw and disorienting her long enough for him to grab hold of her wrist and pin it above her head.  Poisoned darts and all sorts of nasty surprises were stashed in secret pockets and the lining of her clothes; he’d read the briefing and knew just how slippery she could be.

 

She was strong though; it was taking everything he had to keep her in check.  She’d overpowered Black Widow, done—he didn’t know what.  “ _Cap!_ ” He called for backup, and glanced for just a second at Widow’s prone body.

 

One second was enough.

 

Viper wrenched her free arm from where it had been twisted between them – he heard the violently loud pop as her shoulder dislocated – and then she cracked him across the jaw with a closed fist.  Head reeling, he only barely managed to keep her other arm pinned, but it didn’t matter: she grabbed him by the collar, battered leather giving way beneath her pull, and then her teeth sunk into his shoulder.

 

His left arm felt like it had been dipped in acid.  The pain was so intense all his brain could focus on was making it stop.  He lashed out wildly, one of his blows knocking Viper back – her teeth tearing through skin as they separated – and then the ground dropped away and he was sliding sideways down the marble steps.  He tumbled to a stop next to Black Widow’s body, and for a few shuddering heartbeats it was all he could do just to breathe.

 

Someone else had engaged Viper – he could hear the sounds of their fight overhead.  He dragged himself to his knees and pressed a hand to his shoulder.  Fire lanced down his arm at the pressure, making his vision swim.  His gloved fingers came away smeared with blood and something else – milk-white and hot, even through leather.

 

“She poisoned me,” he groaned.  “That  _bitch_!”

 

“VERILY! THAT WAS NO SWEET KISS, HUNTSMAN.”

 

“ _What the hell—?_ “

 

“Don’t let her bite you,” he clarified, trying not to grimace.  He could feel the paralysis starting to set in.  If they didn’t finish this soon—

 

He struggled to his feet.  The blood made his grip slippery, but he got a firm hold on Widow and heaved her up into his arms.  Her head lolled against his shoulder, curls sticking to his bloodied chest and he saw – even in the dim light of battle – the angry red puncture rising against the pale line of her throat.

 

_< WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, BARTON?!>_

 

He tightened his grip on Widow – on his  _partner_  – and tried to shake the pain from his head.  How had everything gotten so fucking out of hand?

 

“We’ve…” He licked his lips.   “We’ve got to finish this.  Let SHIELD detonate—“

 

“HULK SMASHED!”

 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

 

Gunfire rained from overhead and he hunched down over Widow as chunks of the ceiling fell loose on top of them.

 

“It’s too late, Hawkeye.” Captain America’s voice boomed over the comm link, not the slightest hint of duress; though when Hawkeye looked up he could see the other Avenger grappling with Viper, blue and green blurring together through the dust.  “ _We_ need to take Viper down.  We’re the only ones who can.”

 

“But—“

 

_< GET THEM IN LINE, BARTON.  **NOW**! >_

 

Blue light exploded in front of him and he turned on instinct, protecting Widow with his body – but it was only Iron Man appearing suddenly in front of him, blasting clear a circle around them fifteen-feet across.  Relief flooded him for all of five seconds, and then---

 

“God _damnit_ , Hawkeye!”

 

Iron Man advanced on him, faceplate down.  Expressionless; but—beyond the synthesized voice relay, beyond metal and wires – for that one single moment, he saw Iron Man as Cap saw him.  He could see his frustration, could hear it through the machinery; knew that it was Tony Stark looking back at him.

 

“You’re not SHIELD anymore –  _you’re an Avenger!_ This is your team and you need to trust us or you’re going to get somebody killed.”  Hawkeye stared at his outstretched hand, the blue light of the repulsor streaking over gold and red chrome.  It looked like the precipice of something. 

 

“You have to make a choice between being a soldier or being a goddamn superhero.”

 

_< BARTON!> _/ “HAWKEYE!”

 

He jumped.

 

“Start being an Avenger right the fuck now.”  
  
Hawkeye stared at him, heart racing and ridiculously, desperately wishing in that moment that he could see Tony’s face.  Instead, it was Iron Man that stared back, faceplate stern and unwavering.

 

Hawkeye reached up and switched off the encrypted channel.

 

“Get Widow to the Hulk,” he said, passing her body off into Iron Man’s stronger arms.  “She’s been hit with one of Viper’s darts.”

 

He nodded, thrusters firing.  “Your arm any good?”

 

Iron Man didn’t wait for an answer, but blasted off towards the hotel entrance – flying safely above the battle.  Hawkeye let out a long breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

 

“We’ll see,” he muttered to himself.  He flexed the fingers of his left hand and felt more numbness there than pain; which was worse.   _Eh, fuck it._

 

He unslung his bow in one fluid movement, smashing the length of it into the face of one of the remaining HYDRA goons as he took the stairs two-at-a time.  He loosed an arrow into the chest of another as he turned to fight him and the soldier dropped instantly.

 

“Caaap?” he yelled. “You got a plan here?”

 

He ducked as a chunk of marble the size of a car door went sailing overhead; Thor’s work no doubt.  The man  _did_  like a good bit of destruction.  He notched another arrow to his bow and pulled the string taut, fighting the shaking in his arm.  He sighted along it to where Cap was still fighting Viper, his shield lodged in the wreckage behind him.

 

“Cap?”

 

The captain leaned back and landed a solid kick to Viper’s chest that sent her flying backwards into the lobby wall.

 

“Thor!” Captain America yelled. “HAMMER!”

 

Thor obeyed without hesitation, swinging it once about his head and then letting Mjolnir loose.  The mystic hammer crossed the distance like a rocket; Cap ducked to avoid it, but so did Viper.  She’d recovered enough of her wits to slide down the crumbling wall, but was unable to escape entirely and the hammer punched a hole through the plaster, bringing half the wall and one of the wooden support beams down on top of her.

 

Cap had one arm up to protect against flying debris, coughing through the concrete dust – he couldn’t see Viper, worming her way free, all but the lower half of her legs having managed to avoid the falling wall. 

 

But Hawkeye saw her. 

 

He dropped the arrow from his bow, and even as it fell he reached for his quiver and pulled an arrow by touch alone, its feathers fletched with purple.  The first arrow was still clattering against the tiled floor when he notched the new one to the bow and fired.

 

“BACK!”

 

Cap moved instinctively – vaulting backwards as the arrow whizzed past him.  He landed and dropped to one knee behind his shield as Hawkeye’s arrow found its mark, burying itself in Viper’s thigh.

 

She screamed in pain, and then---the arrow’s end exploded in a burst of black netting, flaring out around her and twisting shut.  The more she struggled the more entangled she became until she could scarcely move within the snare.

 

And then, just like that, it was over.

 

Captain America stood up, brushing dust from his uniform and surveyed the damage (which was, truth be told, quite extensive).  Hawkeye could care less.  Thor landed beside him, his cloak torn and dirtied, but looking no worse for ware – barely out of breath even as Hawkeye sucked in great lungful’s of air.  “A FINE HIT!” He cheered and clapped him heavily on the shoulder.

 

Hawkeye thought he might pass out.

 

“Thanks, big guy,” he groaned.  He glanced down to see a fresh wave of blood pulsing from the puncture wound above his collarbone.   _Gross_.  “Time to go home.”

 

He began his somewhat stilted walk towards the front door – or what had  _been_  the hotel’s front door – and tried not to think about how all this was going to bite him in the ass later.

 

“I would like some medical attention,” he announced as casually as he could, considering he’d just walked into a circle of shocked onlookers, armed SHIELD agents, and the Hulk (who was rocking Black Widow in his massive hand like he’d found a wounded bird on the side of the road).  “If that’s not too much trouble.”

 

One bite at a time.

 

~

Tony insisted Bruce be the one to treat Clint – once the crowd had been disbursed and their impending blowout with SHIELD temporarily moved back.  Luckily enough, SHIELD had been stockpiling antivenoms to Viper’s various poisons just about as quickly as she managed to procur or invent them.  It was only a matter of fishing the appropriate vial out of a med-tech’s bag and administering it.

 

Clint had been made to sit on the back bumper of the surveillance van – what was left of it anyway.  Hulk had done a rather thorough job of stomping the body of the vehicle into a sparking pancake; but there was enough of the back-end (now a mere foot off the ground) to support Clint while Bruce, de-greened and dressed in borrowed scrubs, prepared his treatment.

 

“I can’t believe she bit me,” he griped.  “ _Who does that?_ ”

 

“You were quite fortunate,” said Bruce.  His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose and were in danger of falling off completely.  He handled the large needle of antivenom with a casualness that made Clint uncomfortable.

 

“Not the word I’d use.”

 

Bruce might have smiled – but Clint was too busy getting stabbed in the arm to notice.

 

“AH  _FU_ —“

 

“Language.”  Bruce set aside the hypodermic and reached for a pair of scissors.  Clint could think of a few more choice words to say, but feeling was already starting to creep back into his fingers so he bit his tongue.

 

“Hollow caps filled with venom; she fitted them over her own canines. Quite resourceful.”

 

“Yeah, she’s a regular Girl Scout.”

 

Clint’s vest was a total loss even before Bruce began cutting it away.  Maybe he could get something a bit more substantial than leather next time – if there _was_  a next time after Fury got hold of him.

 

“You’re  _fortunate_ ,” Bruce went on. “Because she had to develop an immunity to the poison herself.  Which takes time.”

 

“Time enough for our sidekicks at SHIELD to have picked up an antidote.” Tony was still in the Iron Man suit, but he’d removed his helmet (stashing it god knows where), and he approached them grinning.

 

“Sidekicks?” Bruce repeated – to which Tony’s grin only widened. “I can’t possibly imagine why Colonel Fury finds you tiresome.”

 

“Gauze is a good look for you, Barton.” Red-metal fingers gestured at Clint’s shoulder.  Bruce had finished patching him up and pads of gauze and tape stretched from his shoulder down to the dip in his collarbone.  “Ready to go up?”

 

Clint’s gaze shot upward automatically – as if he could see the SHIELD Helicarrier hovering miles above them.  He licked his lips

 

“Yeah. See. I was just mauled by a crazy person—“

 

Tony scoffed. “You’re fine.”

 

“I was almost paralyzed!”

“And I’m  _almost_  concerned.  Don’t be such a baby, Barton – it was just a little poison.”

 

By then, Clint had regained enough feeling to flip Tony off with both hands.

 

~

 

It did not go well.

 

Clint and Natasha were separated from the rest of the team the second they stepped foot on base.  Half a dozen SHIELD operatives escorted them to one of the division’s holding rooms; though, that still wouldn’t have been enough if Tash had decided she didn’t want to go.

 

But they went quietly, only exchanging a single look as they were marched through corridors and left to wait for Fury.

 

They didn’t have to wait long.  Fury came in yelling – the door barely sliding shut behind him before he was demanding to know why Clint had disobeyed a direct order to stand down. 

 

A soldier was only good as long as he followed orders, after all.

 

There were threats of court marshal, disciplinary action, stripping of rank – from Natasha as well, when she moved silently to stand beside her partner – and that’s when Clint, who’d managed to hold his silence until that point, started to argue – not with Fury, but with Natasha.

 

“Sit down, Tash.” Clint hissed, glaring at her when Natasha made no move to leave his side.

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said matter-of-factly, without so much as a glance in his direction.

 

Then they were interrupted by a loud commotion as – quite suddenly – the rest of the team shoved their way into the holding room and everyone began shouting at once.  Tony had clearly overriden the passcodes, if the tablet in his hand was any indication, and he could see Thor’s large frame over his shoulder; he seemed to be standing on the unconscious SHIELD agents Fury had posted in the hall.

 

Clint had no idea how much they had heard – about him, about what he and Natasha had been doing…

 

But whatever they had heard, or hadn’t heard, Natasha was only the first to stand beside him.

 

Steve, the patriotic sonofabitch that he is, argued loyalty and the greater good and (when that  _unsurprisingly_  failed to move Fury) vowed he’d walk off the Avengers initiative forever unless they ‘suspended all actions against Agent Barton.’

 

Nobody said no to Captain America.

 

Fury visibly balked, but refused to immediately surrender ground.  They were a military organization and there were still rules to be followed; Captain America might head the Avengers, but they still answered to SHIELD.

 

“With all due respect, Colonel,” Steve said.  “The Avengers are my team, and in the field of battle, I call the shots.”

 

“That is  _NOT_  what we agreed—“

 

“You do not have the experiences necessary to effectively lead—“

 

“Now wait just a goddamn minute—“

 

“Hi, Pepper.”

 

Everyone turned to stare at Tony.  

 

For a second, Clint forgot what was going on around him.  He gaped at Tony, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

“ _Really?_ ”

 

Tony just smirked and waggled his fingers in a little wave.

 

“Yeah, Pep, I’m gonna need you to go ahead and start the necessary buyout paperwork,” he said into the phone.  “You can file it under ‘S,’ for SHIELD.”

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing Stark?” Fury demanded.

 

Tony cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’m kind of on the phone here, so if you don’t min—“

 

“STARK!”

 

Pepper must have said something, because he dropped his hand with an affronted noise. “I’m being  _perfectly_  reasonable…” he told her – which Clint thought was a bit of a stretch.

 

“We’re a military division of this United State’s government—“

 

“Actually, you’re really not.”

 

Tony stared Fury down. “You got sooo caught up in your keeping your little club secret—“ he broke off with a burst of irrational laughter.  “Y _ou’re completely off the political grid!_ ”

 

Clint thought he might be insane.  “Stark, wh—“

 

Steve’s hand on his arm silenced him, but he couldn’t let it go.  “What is he doing?” he hissed.

 

“Trust him,” Steve muttered back; his face was hard, but all his focus was on Tony and Clint thought that - just maybe - Steve didn’t know what the hell he was doing either.  “Tony knows what he’s doing.”

 

“We both know you never wanted me to join your super secret boy band–“ Tony was still a full armslength and a half from the director, but he seemed to grow bigger the longer he talked.  “But you couldn’t get Iron Man without me, so what choice did you have?  Go ahead, tell the class how you feel.”

 

Fury scowled.  “I think you’re a self-centered jackass with no respect for the chain of command.”

 

“I didn’t hear you complaining when I upgraded your defense systems, or when I outfitted your soldiers with the latest Stark tech.”

 

“You’re a liability to the initiative and to the Iron Man weapon ” 

 

“You wanna see how much of a liability I can be?— _threaten my team again._ ”

 

Clint gaped, open-mouthed; even Natasha stirred next to him in surprise.  He remembered when the Avengers had first come together six months ago – how Tony had thought the very idea of a team of superheroes was laughable; he was a lone gunman, had privatized world peace (you’re welcome), but didn’t play well with others.

 

Now Clint, arguably the least of the team, was being tossed into the frying pan and Tony had inexplicably chosen to throw himself under the metaphorical bus.

  
“All the documents that matter list you as a  _private_ enterprise run by  _private_  shareholders.” Tony gave his phone a little shake.  “And I’m about to take on a significant amount of stock.”

 

Clint thought Steve’s face might split in two he was smiling so wide. (One act of camaraderie and the guy got all proud and sappy).  Clint, on the other hand, was more concerned that Fury’s head might actually, literally  _explode_.

 

He grabbed Tony’s arm, dragging him aside as Steve intercepted Fury. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

 

“I’m a billionaire, remember?” Tony quipped.  “This is what I  _do_.”  
  
Fury was beyond pissed – he’d gone right into what Tony would call a  _shitfit_  – and it was all Steve could do to verbally hold him back, while Tony strolled around the back end of the room finalizing paperwork with Pepper.

 

It’s only when Fury started yelling about sabotage and illegal hacking – not helped by Tony’s indignant interjections of how much SHIELD tech is from Stark Industries – that Steve (the only non-SHIELD member with any military background) finally suggested a compromise.

 

Tony would just buy Clint and Natasha’s government contracts.

 

It all happened too fast for Clint to follow, and then he was being buffeted out of the holding room by Thor’s wide gait.  Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You’re a free agent now, Barton.  How’s it feel?”

(Honestly, he felt a little bit like throwing up.)

  
“I think...I want a drink.”

 

_What the hell had just happened?_

 

~

 

Despite being the one who’d almost gotten the axe earlier, Clint got no say in where the team ended up for celebratory drinks.  Bruce had vetoed any and all poolhalls, because he was a poor loser in the most destructive sense; Steve and Thor were uncomfortable and obsessed, respectively, with bright lights and overloud music so clubs, dance halls, and the entire Hamilton strip was off-limits.  This decision in particular, irked Natasha, who never bought her own drinks if she could help it, but when Tony decided on The Sushi Bar, she couldn’t help but agree with her empty stomach.

 

When they poured through the front door, Tony leading the way with his sunglasses obnoxiously still in place, Natasha immediately peeled away from the group – spying a cluster of suited businessmen in the far corner that looked to be easy marks.  Clint smirked as she swaggered off.  “Best of luck, Tash – don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

 

The rest of them grabbed a round of drinks at the bar and found an out-of-the-way corner where they could drink without fear of being recognized.

 

~

 

“How much did I cost?” Clint asked him later over the green lip of his bottle.  They’d been abandoned by most of the group, left to their own devices in the ever-darkening corner of the bar as the hours ticked by and one-by-one their teammates headed back to the mansion.

 

Thor was entertaining a group of co-eds by downing entire bottles of sake and then doing complicated tricks with the empty bottles. (Clint did  _not_  want to see that particular tab).  Natasha was arguing in Japanese(with increasing volume) about who the fuck knew – Clint’s Japanese was mediocre at the best of times – but it was entertaining to watch all the same.  Steve had been the first to go, since his metabolism made drinking superfluous, and Bruce had followed about an hour later.

 

Tony waved the question off.  “Worth every penny, I’m sure.”

 

Clint let that answer go; if he wanted to know, he was sure he could charm Pepper into looking it up.

 

“So,” he said instead.  “You hacked into SHIELD’s encrypted comm system.” 

 

That much was obvious after their confrontation in the hotel; it was an uncomfortable thought, though, like being caught with your hand in the honeypot.  He didn’t look at Tony when he said it, but as the other man shifted on the couch next to him, he couldn’t help but glance over.

 

Tony scratched the underside of his jaw, then sort of lifted one shoulder and dropped it.  “Yeah,” he drawled, looking pensive.  “’bout a year ago?”

 

Clint choked on his drink.  Tony just laughed, thumping him heartily on the back as he coughed and spluttered, nearly dropping his bottle.

 

“You’ve been quite complimentary, Barton,” he demurred when Clint could breathe again.

 

“Listen—“

 

“You made the right choice today.”

 

Tony looked at him sidelong, matching Clint’s skeptical frown with his customary smirk.  But there was an earnestness there too, slipping away before Clint could pin it down.  He shook his head instead.

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

“Trust me.  I’m a genius, remember?”

 

And, well, it sounded so simple when he said it like that.

 

He looked down at his beer, the bottle shaped ridiculously like a Buddha because the bartender had insisted it was a specialty and Thor had been so amused by “human’s manner of idol worship” that he’d bought them all a round.  It tasted only slightly better than horrible, and wasn’t exactly what he’d have picked to celebrate his freshly bought “freedom.”

 

“Then I think we need proper drinks,” he replied, decidedly.

 

“Agreed.”

 

“Sake bombs?”

 

“How old are you?” It had been growing increasingly darker in the bar, and though their corner was almost completely in shadow now, Clint could still make out Tony’s sardonically raised eyebrow.

 

“Old enough to know it’s the sissy drinks that get you smashed,” he shot back easily, not rising to the bait.  “Should I get you another beer, gramps?”

 

“I didn’t say  _no_ ,” Tony pointed out, warmly enough, but he glared when he saw Clint smirking at him. “Shut up and get the drinks, Barton.”

 

Clint sauntered off to the bar, laughing.

 

~

 

In retrospect, sake bombs might have been a bad idea.  At least, matching each other six for six was.

 

“You..think  _Tash_ , is scary—?“

 

“ _Yes_! And so do you.”

 

“Shut up,” Clint ordered, jabbing him in the shoulder. “ _I’m_  scary.”

 

Tony actually started to laugh at him (the dick), and he might have been  _slightly_  inebriated, but Clint wasn’t drunk enough not to know when he was being laughed at.  His attempts to glare him into silence, only made it worse.

 

“Before SHIELD, I was—I was in  _the circus_.  With the jumping, and and the  _flips_?  I am like a ninja: in  _complete_  control of my body,” Clint boasted, gesturing so firmly with his glass that sake and beer splashed down the back of his hand.  Tony’s own drink was braced against his leg, but still tipping precariously. 

 

“Yeah?” Tony eyed him lazily.  “Your hard-on’s jabbing me in the leg.”

 

There was a long beat of complete and utter silence.

 

Then Clint decided the only appropriate response to this statement was to swing his knee over Tony’s and straddle him on the low-set couch.  The fluidity of the movement surprised even Tony (and Clint didn’t fail to notice the way his hands hovered over his thighs as though he’d been about to steady him before catching himself).

 

“What are you doing?” Tony asked in a low voice, never quite losing his characteristic smirk.

 

Clint licked his lips; smiling because they were definitely both crazy.  “I don’t know.”

 

Tony grinned.

 

“Brilliant.  Is it too late to sell you back?”

 

He knew Tony was all talk though, knew it the moment he traced his fingers along the collar of his suit and felt him go still, holding his breath.  But Clint only slipped his hand into the front pocket of his suit and drew out Tony’s gold-framed aviators.  The sake had made his coordination a little slower, but he fumbled only a little unfolding them and smirked as he slipped them on – the bar around him going impossibly dark.

 

“I feel richer already.”

 

“They look good on you.”

 

Clint hadn’t realized he was still touching Tony until he felt the rumble of his voice beneath his palm.  He started to let his hand fall away, but was stopped by the firm curl of Tony’s fingers around his wrist.  He looked down dumbly at their hands, his head feeling deliciously fuzzy.  Tony’s thumb drifted over his pressure point.

 

And Clint kissed him.

 

With only Tony’s grip to steady him, he leaned forward and skated his lips across the corner of Tony’s mouth.  It was Tony who turned his head, catching them both by surprise.  The kiss was brief, their mouths slanting together like a liquid sigh, slick and sure, and then Clint pulled back.

 

Tony’s eyes, half-lidded, darted across Clint’s face, then dropped down to his mouth and back up just as quickly.  He was trying to read him, the frustration growing just behind his eyes; Clint took a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing his own eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses.

 

He looked where he liked, his smirk slowly growing.

 

Tony bit him.  He leaned up and crashed their mouths together, biting at his lower lip until Clint relented and let him in.  They kissed, open-mouthed – hard enough to bruise, Tony’s iron grip on his wrist holding Clint there.  When they parted they were both panting (or maybe they were both laughing) and Clint’s lips were red and kiss-swollen.

 

He reached over Tony to grab his beer.

 

“Where’s Natasha?” Tony mumbled, apropos of nothing.

 

Clint leaned back, loving the dip and roll of gravity as the restaurant tilted around him.  “Gone, gone,” he said.  He frowned a little, remembering. “She, mmm, took the keys.”

 

“Rude,” Tony tsked. Clint bobbed his head in agreement, and Tony’s hand pressed hot against his spine.

 

“…Thor?”

 

Clint groaned and pulled back. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

 

“That’s the general consensus.”  Tony frowned without realizing, voice still light even as his fingers sought purchase to drag Clint back.

 

“Do you ever stop talking?” Clint demanded.

 

“Do you?”

 

Tony hooked his fingers into belt loops and tugged, Clint sliding back down against him without protest, almost boneless.  He held him there with one hand – as if Clint was going anywhere – and reached up to pull his own sunglasses from Clint’s face, watching the other man blink against the sudden barlight, pupils contracting and then blowing wide as his eyes found Tony’s face in the shadows.

 

Tony started to speak, then swallowed – and maybe that was it, that the great Tony Stark was momentarily unable to speak (because of  _him_ ) that pushed Clint over that precipice.  He twisted his hand in Tony’s tie and tugged him up into the kiss.  His mouth opened hot and wanting beneath his own, and he fell into it, drowning.

 

It felt like they’d always had this between them – both of them standing on the cliff’s edge, silently daring the other to jump first.

 

Tony moaned under him, and Clint shuddered at the sound of it, rolling his hips forward just to hear it again.  Tony didn’t disappoint, his head falling back as Clint pulled the noise from him for a second time – even biting his lip against it, the sound carried.  Clint licked his mouth open to silence him with another hard kiss, soothing the worried red of his bitten lips.  Tony slid a hand along his face and into his hair, holding him there, thumb pressed to the beat of his temple.

 

“Is this how you thank everyone who gets you kicked out of the army?” Tony’s breath was hot against his throat, making Clint smile.

 

“Only the ones with their own jet,” he murmured back.

 

Tony smirked up at him, fingers curling around his hips.  “You don’t ask for much.  I respect that.”

 

Not amused, Clint shoved his hand away in rebuke. “I’m trying to thank you,” he growled, even as Tony’s hand slipped back beneath his shirt.  He didn’t stop him.

 

“’Thank’ away.”

 

“Try not to sound so put-upon.”

 

“Now who’s causing the hold up?”

 

Clint rolled his hips, snapping the smugness right off Tony’s face.  He shifted back, settling more of his weight down on Tony and giving himself room to snake his hand between them, palming Tony through the thin material of his pants.  The aviators made a faint clattering sound when Tony dropped them, his hand closing around Clint’s wrist as the other hand pulled their faces together again.  Clint pressed down –  _hard_  – grinning against Tony’s mouth as the other man groaned, nails biting into the soft skin of Clint’s wrist.

 

He was gonna make him  _come apart_.

 

~

 

_Never again._

 

He had cotton in his mouth and there was something jabbing into the side of his head that could have been a dagger for all he cared, because the sun streaming in through his bedroom window was bound to set him ablaze any second, and never,  _never again_.

 

He flung an arm over his eyes, hit something metal, and rolled away from the window—and right off the bed.  For a long moment he laid there on the floor, not really giving a shit if anyone were to walk in; at least it was darker down there.

 

“Fucking sake.”

 

He fumbled at his face and pulled off what had been digging so uncomfortably into his temple and the bridge of his nose: a pair of gold-framed aviators.

 

_Tony’s_  aviators.

 

Clint groaned.

 

~

 

By the time he found a pair of sweats and staggered into them, his head was pounding.  The only blessing he received amidst the disaster of it all, was that he didn’t run into anyone else on his staggeringly slow journey down to the kitchen.  He was gonna drown this sumbitch hangover in about a metric ton of coffee, then maybe throw himself under the next convenient bus to roll by.

 

Natasha was in the kitchen.

 

She looked fresh from a work out, one knee drawn up onto the seat of her chair and brushing crumbs from the fabric of her yoga pants.  Clint froze in the doorway, swaying slightly from the sudden stop.

 

Pro: She had toast and coffee.

 

Con: It was Natasha.

 

Pro:  _Coffee_.

 

It wasn’t really a choice.  He shuffled into the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the way her sharp eyes tracked him across the room.

 

“Nice shades, Tex.”

 

Clint lifted a hand and then dropped it (he’d forgotten he’s pushed the sunglasses onto the top of his head).  He mumbled something unintelligible in response.

 

She eyed him over her coffee – looking blatantly unsympathetic as he all but poured himself into the chair across from her.  She smirked and pushed the plate of toast closer to him.

 

“Late night?”

 

“I think I dry humped Stark in the back of the sushi place.”

 

He reached miserably for some toast only to have Natasha yank it forcibly away.  “You did  _what_?” she hissed.

 

“Stop. I need food.”

 

“No! People who dry hump playboy billionaires  _do not get toast_.”

 

“Come on!”

 

“No.”

 

He glared at her, then decided the kitchen was way too goddamn bright and knocked the sunglasses back down onto his face.  “Bitch.”

 

“Slut.”

“I don’t need this kind of abuse,” he declared (though his disgruntled exit was somewhat lessened by how long it took him to heave himself out of the chair).

 

He took her coffee mug, which she allowed, then thought better of it and took the coffee pot instead. 

 

“Aren’t you being a bit dramatic?” she asked, nodding at the pot.

 

“Oh, blow m—“ She stuffed a piece of toast into his mouth so fast he nearly choked.  Well good – that’s what he’d wanted in the first place.

 

He flipped her off with his free hand, mouth full of toast as he headed out the door.

 

“Steve’s down there with him,” she called after him. 

 

Clint mentally swore as he honest-to-god missed a step;  _of course he fucking was._   And if he adjusted his intended destination from Tony’s workshop to the rec room, well, Natasha certainly didn’t need to know that.  He just walked away and ignored the twist in his gut that had nothing to do with sake or Tash’s overburnt toast.

 

~

 

The water was cool, but not cold, and it helped ease the throbbing in his temples.  It was slow going at first – he didn’t even bother with laps – just waded in and let himself sink down under the surface until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer.  Then he did it again.

 

The coffee had helped a little, but he could have done with a bit more food than just one measly piece of toast.  Still, it was better than nothing.

 

“Hey, JARVIS?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Barton?”

 

“Can I get some classic vinyl in here? A little Led Zep, some Roses?”

 

“Certainly, sir,” the AI assured him.

 

Clint pushed off from the side just as “Sweet Child O’ Mine” began piping through the speakers above the pool deck.

 

He rolled to his front, arms slicing through the water in sharp, crisp lines.  He reached the far side and executed a flip-turn, shoving off hard in the other direction.  With each length he swam, his turns became sharper, and his head hurt a little less.  Only when his shoulders began to ache and he felt a cramp starting in his left calf did he relent.  He pushed off one final time but didn’t break the surface.  His lungs burned with the effort, but he held his breath for the entire length of the pool; surging forward with one last burst of speed when he sensed he’d almost reached the side.  His fingertips touched tile, and he shot to the surface, sucking in air and knuckling the water from his eyes.

 

“Simple Man” was playing as he reached for the coffee pot just off the edge of the pool.  Flipping open the lid he took a long draught of luke-warm heaven straight from the pot, his eyes closed.

 

“You should see someone about that.”

 

Clint nearly dropped the pot into the pool.  As it was, he sloshed half a cup down his chin – which would have been a fucking bitch if it had still been hot. 

 

Tony was standing at the pool’s edge, smirking down at him.

 

“Next you’ll be injecting it into your eyeballs.  Can’t have that.”

 

And with Tony suddenly in front of him, Clint wanted to ask if he remembered.  He wanted to ask if he had bruises in the shape of Clint’s fingers to match the ones on Clint’s hips, or if he remembered the dirty-sweet promises he’d mouthed into the space behind his ear as Clint rocked against him in the dark.  He wanted to ask him how in the hell he could be so goddamn chipper, but he didn’t.  He thought he might choke on all the questions he couldn’t ask.

 

Instead, he answered the way he’d answered Tony’s jibes a hundred times before: “Fuck off, Stark.”

 

Tony met his grin with one of his own.

 

“Need your help with something,” he said, rocking back on his heels.  “Come on – chop, chop.”

 

Then Tony started walking away like he just knew Clint would follow, no questions asked; Clint supposed it came with growing up Tony Stark.  As annoying as it was, what could Clint do really, but sigh and heave himself out of the pool.  His hangover was all but gone anyway, and getting back to Avenging would take his mind off of last night’s debacle.

 

He really hoped whatever Tony was testing wasn’t going to blow him up. (Again).

 

He’d just grabbed a towel and was running it raggedly over his hair when Tony’s head reappeared around the corner.

 

“No need to get dressed,” he quipped.  Then he was gone again, leaving Clint dripping and dumfounded on the pool deck.


End file.
